Hurt Vector: Tomorrow And
by Izzers
Summary: Yain Juuri. Mandalorian. Empire Era. She lives her life as well as can be expected of someone in her position. But things always seem to go from bad to worse, and this time the bounty strikes too close to home. Rated M for themes & future entries
1. Entry 01 Meeting

_**A/N:**_ I first fell in love with Mandalorians a long time ago, when I first saw the Original Trilogy. Then, a few years ago, I became addicted with LucasArts' Knights of the Old Republic, and the second game (II: The Sith Lords), sparked that love a second time. I picked up Republic Commando upon release, have picked up and am up to date with the Republic Commando Novel series, and am currently attempting to catch up on the Legacy of the Force series. I am working on armor, but it is a very _very_ slow process as money constraints are an issue, and I am a small human female who is relatively unfamiliar with power tools.

Now that you know my brief background, I can tell you why I'm writing this. Hurt Vector is the result of my need to write a strong female main character in a story devoid of romance, because romance is not always necessary to write a _good story_. It was my need to write a story around a Mandalorian who, for all intents and purposes, is really still searching for herself. She's not a Mandalorian, but she is. She's not who she says she is, but she is exactly that.

I like characters with flaws. Many, many flaws. Yain has a lot of them, but she still manages to live through the day, get the bills paid, put food on the table, and obtain fuel for her ship. If people die around her because of it, then, well, it's just another ghost to carry. And trust me—she has many.

For any non-Basic related translations, a glossary is included at the end of every entry. Thank you for reading.

**Warnings:** Hurt Vector contains many controversial topics and suggestive themes, including but not limited to: excessive cursing in multiple languages, drug/stimulant use, addiction/dependency, psychosis, neurotic behavior, hints of PTSD, slight homosexual implications, wanton self-destruction, murder, and other such fun topics. If this bothers you in any way, shape, or form, _or_ if you are a minor _(aka, under-aged)_, there is a button at the top of your screen that says **BACK**. I suggest you use it. Thank you.

**Disclaimer:** This is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe on the rights of any copyright holder. Characters belong to their respective owners. **  
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* * *

[16:09:29]  
**108 Days Post Order 66**

My visor whirls before my eyes as streams of information adjust to the sudden change of light. I step out from the dark hut onto open ground, damp earth squelching beneath my boots. Dark splotches obscure my T-slit's vision, but I ignore the impulse to wipe them away. They'd only streak and stain and be that much harder to clean.

I have enough to worry about.

Far above me stretches the moon's lavender atmosphere, the east horizon tainted with the curve of a rust red planet. Not that I'm looking at it—I've just seen it all before. The nameless satellite I'm walking on is populated with more Duros than I could've lived with seeing—and smelling. It orbits a planet with a name I can't pronounce, uninhabitable unless you have the money and the means. I have neither. And even if I did, I wouldn't have used my creds to venture out so far in the Outer Rim.

No, I'd have settled on a populated planet well within our—recently deceased, since it's now called the Empire or some _shavit_—Republic Space. I'd have been dead.

Like I said. I have enough to worry about.

I flex my recalibrated custom gauntlets, reveling in the comfort of smooth, cold metal pressing against the inside of my arms. Just a flick of the wrist can easily send a few darts some unlucky sap's way. Handy, accurate, and exceedingly helpful. The most I could have asked for, really. I'll thank my _vod'ika_ for that, someday. Maybe. If I live long enough.

A clunky, still steaming FC-1 launcher bounces in the holster against my back plate. I can feel the heat of the barrel through my _beskar'gam_—signature Mandalorian armor—and two layers of fabric. Beside the launcher is my personal MMU, a Mobile Medkit Unit, locked in a melt-proof package. They both bounce against my plates, not as secure as the blaster against my thigh, but I never leave home without them. The MMU and FC-1, that is. Not the blaster.

As I march down the dirt path to return to _Jate'kara_, my ship, I focus solely on breathing the air my suit's support systems offer. The atmosphere's too thick with liquid for me to survive without adequate filtration. But, filtration I have.

My eyes flicker to the mini 360° window situated at the lower right corner of my view-screen. I can see the displaced footprints left in the path, stained red and black from the blood still slicked against my soles. The wind begins to pick up, blowing dirt and earth and wet sand everywhere. The footprints remain the same.

It's funny how I left the hut in one piece, despite unloading my flechette in there. Or, you know, it should be—except that it isn't.

Screaming in my speakers. Begging. Floating, glowing eyes. Flashes of blaster fire. Laser sights trained on my visor. Bolts ricocheting off my chest plates. Glints of a vibroblade in the dark.

The walls are painted red when I'm done.

My stomach rolls. I pause to breathe and suck in warm, recycled air. Reused air that smells and tastes of me. I try not to think about it.

Some healer I turned out to be. Instead of saving, I'm killing. My superiors would've been so _proud_… if they weren't frozen and scattered _in pieces_ somewhere out there.

_Shab._ Don't think about it.

At least the credits are wired to my account. The credits are wired to my account. The credits are wired to my account.

I repeat this mantra as I resume walking. The tall, chipped duracrete walls of the port entrance loom overhead. Red targets bounce across my screen as a dock worker bolts out of my way, emits a high-pitched squeal and dives behind a stack of metal crates.

I ignore him.

_Jate'kara_'s metal ramp clicks under my boots as I lurch into my ship and slam my fist against a side panel. The durasteel cracks under my crush-gaunt, but the ramp still slides into place as the airlock seals tight.

Now that I'm safe, separated from the rest of the galaxy, I drop to my knees with a heavy sigh. The seal of my bucket pops open after a few clumsy attempts and I lay the _buy'ce_ reverently on the grated floor in front of my bent knees. My eyes slide closed and the back of my head hits the hull with a not-so-silent _thunk!_

The sound of an aged repulsorlift engine is my only warning.

"_Lorda Yonjori?! Chi sa yo nara? Chay ashka na awar pe uba._"

I glance up at the hovering blue-gray droid. There's hair hanging in my face. I'll have to chop everything off past chin length, later. After I clean everything. _Everything._

"I'm fine. It's not mine," I reply tiredly and wave an open palm vaguely towards my blood-spattered armor. The droid bristles, letting out a few short beeps of irritation.

"_Lontko un uba cho?_" he asks.

Does it matter what I'm trying to do? It shouldn't to him, and I refuse to acknowledge the change in his behavior—it's become less and less droid-like. Besides, it's not like he's _mine_, legally speaking. It shouldn't matter. It shouldn't.

"No, Nate," I sigh. "I'm not trying to get myself killed. I just. This situation. I can't. I can't. I…"

I can't get the words out, so I stop talking. Nate hovers silently, glowing eyes focused on my face. He's just a droid, face frozen and expressionless, yet…

Yet for a minute I thought I saw…

Never mind.

With a grunt, I haul my _shebs_ back on my feet and trudge down the hall. I stop at the makeshift kitchen, the open door of my quarters opposite. I take a sharp right, intending to grab a muja fruit or a fresh cup of caffa, and slam my hip into the corner of a bolted-down table. A half-filled can of lukewarm juice clatters to the floor, splashing pink liquid everywhere.

"Frack," I curse.

I stumble back, breathe, take two steps forward, and put a dent in the table with my fist. My vision swims. I tear the kriffing crush-gaunt off and hurl it down the hall.

"_Frack._"

My bucket flies through the open door to my quarters, slams into the wall and falls on my unkempt cot, followed by blood-smeared red, black, and gold armor plates. The rest of my kit clatters to the grated floor, my MMU popping open and spraying first aid supplies in every direction.

A _rip_ echoes in the empty ship as I struggle out of my flightsuit.

"_Gfersh._" I hiss, my voice increasing in volume with every word. "_Jactna. Hufgeb hsicl merht verre d'n __**nocka!**_"

I tear off the top half of my suit and drop it behind me. Clad in just the bottom half, I viciously grab my gear off the floor and stomp the fallen can flat. I leave the medkit supplies and forget about the damn fruit or the caffa or my rolling stomach.

"_Lorda…?_" Nate blips.

I sigh. "No, Nate. No. _I'll_ clean it. Just…"

Leaving a trail of blood droplets and pink juice to my room, I recklessly toss my gear across the few meters between me and the cot. Then I near-break my fist on the door panel to the 'fresher.

This close to tearing my hair out, I look back at the floating droid in the doorway. "Just get us in the air. _Please._"

"…Yes, master," he responds and disappears from sight.

The door hisses shut and it takes two seconds too long for it to sink it that Nate just spoke Basic. For the first time since I… _liberated_ him.

I delicately curl my swollen hands around the edges of the sink and stare hard at my reflection. To put it lightly, I look like hell. My stomach flips and a strangled giggle escapes my mouth. The giggles mushroom into full-on hysterical laughter. Pain spikes up my arms from my palms as I clench tight around the sharp edges and laugh my face into the drain.

The ship jerks on take-off, my stomach rolls again, and suddenly what little breakfast I consumed earlier today takes a one-way trip to sink heaven.

* * *

Thin drops of condensed water trickle through the steam-fogged mirror, cutting solid boundaries over my obscured reflection. The mirror hangs ajar, the door's hinge holding it open as I fish out thin bandages pre-soaked in kolto. It's archaic in comparison to the ever-popular bacta, but with the price bacta seems to be catching these days… well. Wasn't a tough choice.

I shut the mirror and stare at the bandages in my hands. The knuckles of my left hand are swollen and purpling. The fingers of my right are bruised, covered in slow healing blisters. I set down the loose bandages at the side of my sink, squirt some self-made herbal solution onto my palms, and rub the foul smelling amber liquid into my skin. It burns and cools at the same time, and I can feel the medicinal properties begin to work already.

With a heavily practiced ease, I wrap my hands with the bandages—tight enough to stay on and offer support to my wrists, but not to the point of blocking circulation.

I wipe down the mirror with a spare hand towel and take a quick glance at my reflection, just long enough to ascertain that my broken nose is healing straight before the ship suddenly jerks and I smash my face into the mirror.

"_Frink,_" I gasp.

Stars explode behind my eyes. My aching left hand grips the sharp edge of the sink while my right cups my nose.

"Son of a _sith __**harlot**__._"

I can feel a migraine coming on.

The ship jerks again. I narrowly avoid breaking my nose a third time and slam my palm against the door panel. I stagger into my personal living quarters, closing up the rest of my flight suit and snap shut the neck guard around my throat. Scattered across the room are my assorted _beskar_ armor plates, still spattered with dried blood.

I lean over and hit the button to activate the ship-wide comm. "Nate!"

The ship trembles violently, as if it's being dragged kicking and screaming out of the original flight trajectory. Or as if a lazy droid felt the need to disregard common flight protocol for the human aboard.

As if in agreement, the ship jerks again. I stumble over my cot and gather up my armor, attaching the pieces to my suit as I lurch down the narrow corridors of _Jate'kara._

"_**Nate!**_" I shout down the hall. "_Droyk it_, you shiny floating _piece of skrag._"

I turn sharply onto the bridge. The narrow space quickly widens out as I enter the cockpit, with half the ceiling replaced with smooth, reinforced transparisteel. The curved window only slightly warps the view, and does nothing to diminish the intimidating space station looming in the distance.

Nasaur Station, home to the richer populace of the planet it orbits. A floating, 2 kilometer wide disk with a tall central spire, it serves as a small refueling and armory exchange hub for the system. The weapons are below average, which is far better quality than I expected for some backwater station. But while I might refuel and restock supplies here, I would not spend the night.

I grab hold of the doorframe as _Jate'kara _goes through another series of rumbles. Nate hovers calmly over the co-pilot's chair, occasionally pressing one flashing button or another. A chord trailing away from his mid-back connects him to my ship's mainframe, which is currently in use, judging from the speed the tool plugged in is rotating.

I clear my throat to get his attention. His head swivels on his square shoulders to face me. "Hello master," he tones pleasantly. "It seems we are soon to be guests of two powerful crime lords."

"_We?_" I snap. "There won't be a 'we' if you keep up this _osik._"

I stare at the space station, dimly aware that I'm still missing my armored back-plate, my supplies, and my helmet.

The ship rumbles. On the nav-system embedded in the wall to my left, I can see _Jate'kara_ slowly even out of the original odd, zigzagging path, and onto a straight beeline headed for one of the many docking bays of the orbital space station.

Nate emits an odd, slightly off-tune melody. "We are in for a smooth landing now, Master."

As if we weren't before?

I resist the urge to blast my droid into scrap-heap. Instead, I readjust my utility belt. "Well. Wonderful news. Be sure to transmit our docking codes to the hangar officer. And don't forget to ping his personal system, repeatedly, if he doesn't respond right away this time. I don't want to be _happily greeted_ by a team of Nau-Sec Officers, again."

"But the hangar officer has a dislike for droids, master."

I step forward to tap Nate on his metal head. "Then be sure to ping him after he responds as well. I'd like if you reminded him why not to offend irritated droids with _malfunction personality matrixes._"

Nate's eyes glow intensely, and then quickly fade back to their normal, half powered sheen. "I would enjoy that as well, master," he beeps as his head swivels back to face the flight control panel.

I exit the cockpit to retrieve the rest of my gear from my living quarters. I didn't get a chance to clean off the blood splatter, but to hell with appearances—I don't know if I have enough energy to spare on caring about whether or not I look presentable to a pair of overpaid corporate leaders.

The ship wide comm system crackles to life.

"_Jate'kara_ docking in two minutes, master."

After exiting my quarters, I veer into the makeshift medbay—which was, at one point, an oversized food storage closet—and grab some extra kolto gel. I smear some over my aching nose before donning my helmet.

I stare into total darkness for a few seconds as my _buy'ce_ synchronizes its frequency with _Jate'kara_. Its system whines as it takes into account security parameters, previously stored notes on Nasaur Station's cam system, sealed off construction areas, and differentially acquired security codes that would, hopefully, open a few doors in the event of an emergency. My suit notes several weaknesses in my armor—damages I hadn't had time to patch up since last engagement—and pleasantly informs me via data-stream that survival to deep-space exposure has dropped to a maximum of five minutes.

If I take a trip with jettisoned cargo, five minutes or five hours wouldn't make much difference. Still good to know, I guess.

I relax in the medbay and check over my supplies, from the assorted chems I normally keep stored in my belt pouches to the ammo supply of my gauntlet-mounted dart launcher. I'm leaving the big guns with Nate, but I don't exactly need them to make a mess. Hell, I could go in there naked and be reasonably confident of leaving again with all of my parts intact.

Or, well, mostly intact.

And it's not like I can't put myself back together, anyway.

* * *

Medkit? Check. Holdout Blaster? Check.

Two heavily armed Gamorrean escorts? Check check.

I follow the two abnormally round aliens down extravagantly decorated halls and into an oversized repulsorlift. I recognize the song playing softly in the background as we zip down twenty levels. It's an old gliz song, focused around _unhappy political discourse_, from maybe ten standard years ago.

Funny how time flies.

We come to a stop on an unlabeled sublevel. The doors cycle open to perfumed air and gaudy light strips following the curved ceiling of the hall. The colors are bright and ugly, neon yellow clashing with deep purple and pastel blue. The light fixtures look like they're accented with gold, though I can't really be bothered to stare long enough into the blaring neon lights to be sure.

I'm herded into the nearest room, the door hissing shut once I pass the threshold. I don't need to test the doors to know they're locked, so I take a look around.

The wall furthest from the door isn't so much a wall as a solid transparisteel curved window, with the perfect view of the planet below. From here, it almost looks beautiful.

It almost looks as if it weren't a floating cesspool of fire and acid soaked mining colonies. As if it wasn't a death trap for all the slaves and indentured servants shipped there with a one way ticket.

A long couch clearly meant for lounging—and _other_ activities requiring an individual to _lie on their back_—sits positioned at an angle for a good view of both the door and the sight presented by the window. A curved desk sits facing the door, the embedded datascreen in the surface flashing information upwards towards the ceiling. Behind the desk is a large cushioned chair, its back facing me.

The sheer size of the chair nearly blocks me from seeing the sparsely dressed Cathar female dancing to the sensual music playing in the background. Her pale gold fur is enhanced by the silky white fabric of her dress. Unfortunately the loose fabric covers all the essential bits—but only _just_. Long platinum blond hair falls from a tight, high ponytail, and swishes about her body in time with her dancing.

A being with a lesser mind might have been entranced, maybe even hypnotized.

I can't quite say I'm not, at the moment.

The Cathar female's eyes open to reveal frighteningly pale blue pupils. She focuses on me and instantly stops her dance.

"Oh! Our guest has returned," she proclaims joyfully.

The chair swivels around to reveal a burly Cathar male. The white scruff around his chin and neck clashes with the dark tan fur of the rest of him. His formal vest hangs open, revealing a bare chest pockmarked with the white, fur-less lines of old scars. His red pupils stare at me, his pointed ears twitching forward in interest. He smiles, baring a few canines.

The Cathar people—a race of humanoid, cat-like bipeds. Their civilization's history is tainted heavily with the enslavement of many of their people. Certain gestures normal to humans can be offensive, or even downright dangerous, when interacting with these natural predators. Showing fear or weakness of any kind could be taken as an invitation for attack.

I've seen it happen before, and I can't say I'd want to invite a showdown with the smaller females, let alone go toe-to-toe with a male.

I keep my hands steady and loose at my sides, focusing my visor on the male, known to me as Master Lirra. Behind him, the female—Mistress Patra—purrs loudly and glides forward to drape herself over his shoulders.

"There she is. There she is, love," she murmurs.

The male nods his head once and then rises from his chair. He steps around the desk and moves in my direction.

I can't sense any hostile intent so I leave my hands where they are. The male steps past without so much as a glance over his shoulder, taps his claws against the door panel, and steps out into the hall.

The doors glide shut and I'm left alone with the female.

"Seems Master Lirra's happy to see me," I note the obvious.

The female rolls her head back and lets out a scratchy breath, her mouth hanging open and baring sharp canines in the Cathar version of a laugh. It's a simple gesture, but the baring of her neck shows that she either doesn't consider me to be a threat, or holds me in high enough regard to assume I wouldn't try anything.

I hope it's the latter.

"My mate did not agree with my demanding to hire you, _man-do._ He did not think I was in the right. A _poor choice_, said he. Untrustworthy. _Kung de nishkung._" She smiles, the glint of fangs peeking just beneath curved lips, as she glides across the floor and around the desk. "But ah. But _ah._ Here you are. Here you are. Delicious, little, angry fe-male _man-dee._"

Uncomfortable is an understatement. I fight the urge to fidget as she pauses by the right-most edge of the desk and leans down to key in a code on a side panel, baring a good amount of leg for my viewing pleasure. A portion of the desk opens up, and what looks to be highly expensive drinks rise up to just above waist level. She plucks a half-filled liquor glass and daintily tastes the violet liquid held within.

"Mmm. Yes. Little, angry, _fe-male_ who eradicated the Duros Mideer family not a many standard hours ago."

My stomach flops. That body… I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.

Focus. Idiot.

A small door within my mind slams shut on everything not pertaining to _business_ and _professionalism._ "There was a bounty. I was paid in full," I reply, tartly failing to mention _and a little extra._

She laughs in the strange, breathy way of the Cathar. "Yes. _Yes._ You were. I filed one bounty, as you well know. Though the bonus assignment." She pauses to arch a slender eyebrow, her right ear twitching slightly forward. "That was not from me. I did not expect for it to be fulfilled, either. And I did not expect it, not from you, fe-male."

And there it is. _A little extra._

I think about it. The _bonus assignment._ Record images of the… _job._ Relay them real-time to the Quarren whom lorded over the list of privately posted system-wide bounties. I don't know what he'd want with the recording. What he plans to do. Or why.

Stop. Don't think about it.

I shrug. "Credits don't grow in space-able greenhouses."

The Cathar female smiles and lowers her chin slightly as she angles her head to the side. I don't recognize the gesture.

"Is that not the universe-knowing truth," she states absently as she downs the rest of her drink. The glass _clinks _softly as she rests it on the surface of the desk.

I flex and un-flex my still-aching fists. "With all due respect, Mistress Patra, despite the lock on the bay holding my ship, I _remain_ here of my own will. I returned on time, like you have asked. I have removed the Duros, again as you asked. Your border dispute is no more. If you intend to remind me of my moral ineptitude…" I bow my head slightly. "If you intend to continue to dance around the next job, I would like to return to the hangar so I can restock my armory while you blow more smoke."

Again, she laughs. "Feisty, _feisty._ I like it. You could have made a beautiful Cathar."

I roll my shoulders slowly back in an exaggerated shrug, a gesture I picked up off a friend nearly a standard year ago. And suddenly I find myself thinking about him. About how simple life was. About how much I like blue-milk.

I need to get out of here.

"Yes," the mistress continues. "Blow smoke. I will stop, my dear. What I want is simple."

And then she's directly in front of me, a clawed hand pressing gently against the center of my chest. "I want my son. I want him _home,_ man-do. It should not be hard. It should not. I have heard many things, _many things,_ about _your kind._ Apprehending a young man should not be hard. Even if he has had… an unorthodox raising in the hands of heretics."

My inability to track her speed is startling. However, I'm not dead. Focusing on that pleasant thought, I take a breath and lay a gloved hand over the clawed hand on my chest.

"I'll need his name, and a picture."

Her frighteningly pale eyes flicker over several spots on my visor, as if looking for my own eyes, and focuses her stare slightly too high. Her painted lips curve downward as she extracts her hand from mine and turns away. The open dress she wears billows softly with the sudden movement, dancing across the floor and against my legs. She steps over to the desk, pulls on a storage panel out of my line of sight, and extracts a top-of-the-line datapad. Her perfectly manicured claws hold out the active pad.

I take it.

Moving a wire from my left gauntlet, I upload the information to my suit's system and transfer the readout to my helmet's HUD. A young face flashes in front of my eyes, smiling, with a set of stats listed to the right. Height, current age, full name, the works. Beneath it all, the words _Jedi Knight: Proceed With Caution_ catches my attention. And beneath _that_ is a credit sum equal to what the new Empire is currently offering for Jedi, ex-Jedi, and Jedi-affiliates delivered into their… _open arms_, dead or alive.

I look at his name, at his face, and realize suddenly that I recognize him. Worse: _I know him._ Suddenly this is personal.

Suddenly I'm angry. My paranoia is flaring, screaming in my head. Does she know? How can she know? _How did she find out?_

With complete disregard to the fact that I'm in a room with a client, and a particularly powerful, impressionable one, I tap into my gauntlet. My personalized system opens a selection of chems in my visor's window. I select a custom mixture on the strong side.

A pinch in the back of my neck. A shock of cold down my spine. The chem cocktail flutters through my bloodstream and takes near-instant affect, slowing my heart rate and forcing a sense of placidity over me. My rage is effectively neutralized before it opens a floodgate of relatively bad ideas.

Like killing the Cathar. But that's more than just a _relatively_ bad idea.

Mistress Patra doesn't seem to notice my moral dilemma. "…and so, you must do this."

Apparently she's been talking. I don't need to know what she's said. It's not hard to understand. A Power Couple lording over a system you've chosen to reside in for some time asks you to do a job. You do it. Say no, and you force some potentially dangerous outcomes to hunt down and cash in on your _shebs._

I don't need more demons on my tail than I have already.

"Why hire me? Why not place an open bounty?"

She looks up from her open palm and focuses her eyes slightly too high on my visor. "Oh. _Oh_ my dear. And advertise that we are somehow affiliated with a Jedi?" She pauses, eyes drooping closed as she allows a portion of her exhaustion to slip through. The feeling of pure _tired_ hits me like a det blast. "It's dangerous enough to be Cathar."

And then her eyes open and her weariness is all but a memory. She turns and retreats to the lounge chair, wilting over the cushions in a lazy, relaxed, yet completely controlled gesture. She raises the back of her hand to her forehead and mewls blissfully as she reclines her head onto the cushion specially designed to support her neck. Purring softly, she rolls onto her side, exposing her back to me.

I'm more and more convinced she sees me as little threat.

"Besides…" she murmurs, "You and him have history."

Well. _That_ answers my unsaid questions. Maybe I _should_ kill her.

She waves a hand dismissively.

The doors behind me hiss open. In steps Master Lirra, followed closely by the two Gamorrean… _escorts_ from earlier, their blasters in hand and grunting distinctly in my direction. I turn on my heel and step out of the room, resisting every urge to run full tilt to my ship and blast out of here like a _mynock out of hell._

Why can't life just be _simple?_

* * *

**End Notes**  
Yonjori is a play on her name, Yain Juuri. Yonjori, in huttese, roughly translates to "Black Son" which has little to do with her. For now.  
"Black Son" can also refer to "Black Nerf," or "Black Sheep."

**Huttese Translations**  
_Lorda Yonjori?! Chi sa yo nara? Chay ashka na awar pe uba._ - Master Yonjori? Do you have pain? There much is blood on you.  
_Lontko un uba cho?_ - Trying are you to die?  
_Kung de nishkung._ - Scum of the (many)scum.

**Expletives And Slang As Follows**  
Hurt Vector - a person who seems to attract misfortune to themselves and others around them  
Shavit - an expletive used by the farmers on Pakrik Minor  
Kriffing - modifier  
Vapin' - modifier  
Frack - expletive  
Gfersh - a Rodian expletive  
Verre D'n Nocka - a Kerestian curse  
Jactna - A Rodian expletive  
Hufgeb Hsicl Merht - Dug expletive phrase  
Frink - a Corellian curse  
Son of a sith harlot - the equivalent of son of a bitch  
Droyk it - a Corellian curse  
Skrag - a Corellian curse  
Osik - Mandalorian expletive


	2. Entry 02 Repetition

_**A/N:**_ Sometimes certain projects fall to the wayside. That's the nature of a semi-busy life.

**Warnings:** Hurt Vector contains many controversial topics and suggestive themes, including but not limited to: excessive cursing in multiple languages, drug/stimulant use, addiction/dependency, psychosis, neurotic behavior, hints of PTSD, slight homosexual implications, wanton self-destruction, murder, and other such fun topics. If this bothers you in any way, shape, or form, _or_ if you are a minor _(aka, under-aged)_, there is a button at the top of your screen that says **BACK**. I suggest you use it. Thank you.

**Disclaimer:** This is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe on the rights of any copyright holder. Characters belong to their respective owners. **  
**

* * *

[16:09:30]  
**109 Days Post Order 66**

The planet is exactly as I left it—a hot, toxic, floating cesspool of fire dotted with acid soaked mining facilities. Slaves and indentured servants mill about in the same areas, blocking the major causeways out of the planet-side hangar and begging for a few extra creds between work hours. Unfortunately for them, I need my credits just as bad as the next jumped-up backwater dolovite miner.

It doesn't take much effort to navigate the crowd and find the exit. My armor does most of the… _non-verbal negotiating_, sending the easily intimidated speedily out of my way on sight alone. Not exactly conspicuous, but I don't have anything to hide on this force-forsaken planet.

Except maybe my face.

I step out from the protective barrier surrounding the hangar. It's raining and the streets are completely clear of droids and life-forms alike. My armor handles the acid easily with a thin, personal energy barrier. The miniature power storage used for the barrier can last for another several hours, at least.

Which is all good and helpful, but I don't plan to stick around that long.

Though it's only midday, the colony is already cast in long shadows, the street lamps buzzing to life very, very slowly. The sky is a blur of angry, rolling green and gray clouds. The occasional flash of lightning lights up the atmosphere with bright silver and casts an ugly gray pallor over the neighborhood—as if it didn't already look so_ friendly_ and_ inviting_ in the first place.

I stroll past the living quarters—a tall, solid building of reinforced duracrete that goes several storeys underground, somewhat protected from the acidity and the planet's heat. Most slaves, and the newer indentured workers, are packed inside like domesticated animals. Eating, sleeping, sweating and dying on top of one another. I've only been in there once.

Let's just say I made it a little more… _roomy._

Past the quarters is the Medical Center. The tiny building is just a round dome peaking out from the ground, two massive doors situated close to the street for emergencies. The side entrance is the one used for casual visitors, so I veer down a path and enter that way. Inside, old white lamps swing suspended from the ceiling.

The place smells like disinfectant, antiseptic, and death.

Behind the square counter is a silver protocol droid, reading over charts and typing something into a desk-mounted console. I turn down a corridor, not bothering to ring up the droid or sign in my local false name onto a chart labeled _Visitors._

I'm not sure I want to be here. But my boots keep walking, and I don't slow down.

I sense her before the doors to the private ward cycle open. It gives me half a second to prepare for the scene within, but it's not enough. I could have all the time in the galaxy and it still wouldn't be enough.

Dachi lays there on a neatly made medical bed, eyes blank and glossy and staring straight up at the ceiling. The med-droid must've just finished checking her vitals.

I haven't been around long enough to decipher all the strange quirks of Zabrak expressions, but I recognize the one she's wearing just fine. I've seen it far too many times, on far too many different peoples.

It's all the same to me, now.

The heart monitor beeps in the irregular rhythm Zabrak are known for. I scan the screen monitoring her vitals, following the lines with my eyes from the machine to the veins in her bare arms. Her chest rises and falls slowly. Tribal tattoos web out from beneath the black mask strapped over her mouth. It almost looks like there's an ethersquid sucking her face, what with the long black tube coiled over her body and spilling over the side of the bed to connect the mask to the machine closest to me. The light wheezing of the mechanical lung is deafening in this small ward.

I notice that they didn't bother to remove the slave collar from her neck.

"I said I'd be back, Dachi," I speak softly as I lightly brush stray strands of wavy red-brown hair from her forehead. "I comm'd ahead. The medical droid said there's been no change in your condition. You're still unresponsive. Past the point of no return."

My voice comes out abnormally warbled from the speakers of my _buy'ce_. I'm going to chalk that up to… Nerves. I guess.

I gently rest my hand over the long black tube, the only thing keeping her alive. Every couple of seconds I feel a faint flutter press against the back of my mind. The heart monitor beeps erratically, and then smoothes out. I expect her eyes to blink, to swivel and focus on me hovering over her. I can see her just jump up, well again, and make one snappy remark or another as she clamps me in a rib-breaking hug.

She's young. Too young for this place_._ No more than a few standard months older than myself. She's deceptively strong, had been for as long as I've known her. She'd have to be, to survive in this mining colony on some force-forsaken rock in galaxy knows where. Years of hard, manual labor didn't age her like it should have. And it _should have._

I never understood that, never figured out the secret behind it.

Oh. _D'ika._

Just wake up and yell at me. Please yell at me.

"Dachi?" I ask. No response, unsurprisingly.

I think about when I last saw her before… before _this._ She was happy. She was _so _happy…

I lean forward and ease her eyes closed. My hand gently smoothes the messy tangle of hair atop her head.

"I wasn't there," I whisper, silent enough that I'm not sure if she could hear me, even if she _was_ awake. "I should've **been there**_._"

Killing didn't bring her back. Killing never brought _any_ of themback.

I trace her hair line, trail my gloved fingers over the contours of the horns sticking out from beneath her skin, and settle on the mask over her nose and cheekbones.

The machines continue to beep. Her chest rises and falls slowly.

My gloved palm fits comfortably over the mask. I silently will her to look at me. Open your eyes. Look at me. _Look at me._

Nothing happens. There is no movement, other than the occasional flashing of the large machine beside the bed and the periodic beeps of the vitals monitor hovering over the right. My hand flexes around the mask.

She's never waking up.

A moment of weakness seizes me. An impulse. I can see myself forcibly removing the breathing tube. Cut her life support. I can see myself watch, transfixed, as her body seizes, goes through the effects of hypoxia. I could manufacture an overdose of conergin. Death would be quick. Relatively painless.

I could _free_ her.

It takes a few, _long_, moments for me to regain control over myself. I let go of the mask and slowly pull my arm back, trailing my fingertips along the black tube, down her arm, and coming to a stop over her hand. I watch her face as I settle into the bedside chair, running my thumb over the back of her knuckles.

My hands are shaking. My vision blurs. Pain tightens behind my ribs. It hurts to breathe.

I sit there.

I sit there for a long time.

* * *

[16:10:04]**  
5 Days Later**

_Jate'kara_ jerks abruptly as we drop out of hyperspace and into orbit around Tatooine. The small comm unit situated on the piloting console begins to beep. I step away from the galaxy map embedded in the wall and lean over the console.

I stare at the flashing button.

Nate floats to my right, monitoring the ship's status. I flop into the pilot's chair and resume control of _Jate'kara._ "Contact one of the landing ports around the outer border of Mos Eisley. If everything goes well, we'll be gone within two days."

"So request five days, master?"

I shake my head. "Just a three day opening will be enough."

Nate beeps in the affirmative and rises from the co-pilot's chair. He floats around and out of sight behind me, presumably to contact one of the many landing pads in the city. While he's busy with that, I reach over and flip a few switches to activate an alternate transponder code—I am now Jin Tamor, piloting the _Sky Fish_, reporting for criminal duty. The console lights up vibrantly for a second as the codes switch, deactivating and activating respectively, and the readout buzzes across the small data screen beside the controls.

That done, I return to maneuvering around inside the atmosphere. Burning red sky swirls above, while miles and miles of dry dusty canyon and desert loom below us, zipping past faster than my eyes care to follow. Just over the next cliff, Mos Eisley Spaceport looms in the distance. Hundreds of bulbous shaped building structures dot the horizon, spewing pollution into the air.

It's the perfect setting for the seedy dealings of the Outer Rim.

Or, well, the closest raging pit of criminal activity this side of the Corellian Run.

"We are clear for Landing Platform ML-163, master."

"Thanks, Nate."

I adjust the speed of _Jate'kara_ as we near Mos Eisley. Landing the ship is easy. Something tells me that the rest of this trip won't be. I shake my head and banish my bad feelings, taking a moment to make sure the seal connecting my helmet to the rest of my suit is secure. It's an unnecessary gesture, but from there I stand and systematically check every piece of my kit, from my chest plates to my shin guards.

The flashing button on the comm unit catches my eye again.

I don't want to hear the message. I know I don't.

I activate it anyway. A miniature blue hologram of my younger sister crackles on. Her pacing form appears to be moving, though the holo remains stationary on top of the console.

"_Yan'ika_, where are you? _Please_ return this call." The message ends there and the image disappears.

I stare at the blank space. When was the last time I spoke to Jah'ki?

Oh. That's right. Over _half_ a standard _year_ ago. Time flies when you're on the run from ghosts.

I switch off the comm unit and exit the cockpit.

It's early morning on this side of the planet. Not quite early enough to warrant waiting inside my ship until the rest of the city wakes up, but still. Early. I walk down the loading ramp as it descends, stopping at the foot of the plank to wait for Nate. He's taking his sweet time to follow.

A _ta-da _tune beeps when he finally arrives, stopping just an arm's length away from me. His wide, large mechanical eyes are dim. Given the dark atmosphere of the port, it's unusual. Nate hovers, looking like a disoriented, overstuffed lovechild of a 2-1B medical droid and one of the rust-red 3PX protocol series. There's wear and tear on his extra external armor plating and the repulsorlift sputters from time to time. He deserves a thorough look-over from someone who knows more than _just_ how to kick start a fidgety hyperdrive.

But I can't contact them. Not just yet.

"You know what I'm about to say, Nate."

The intensity of light in his eyes flickers. "No unauthorized cargo checks. No close examinations of the ship. No unauthorized repairs…"

"And?" I prompt.

He let's out a few quick beeps. "No browsing the holonet for droids with female programming, master."

I reach over to him and pat his metal head while I fish around in my back pouch.

"That's right. If we need a new droid, I'll buy one. But not now, and probably not soon. And here." I hand him three miniature grenades—one sonic and two frags. A portion of his abdomen slides out to reveal a hidden compartment. I place the grenades inside and watch as they disappear into my droid.

"Do not," I state with extra emphasis on each word, "use these unless _absolutely_ _necessary._"

Nate responds with a melancholy melody I don't recognize. I wait a few seconds, but it soon becomes clear he doesn't intend to say anything more.

"Okay then. See you later," I say.

Nate floats back up into the ship. The ramp rises soon after.

I wonder what's gotten into him.

"Oi, Mando."

The 360 degree view-screen situated in the corner of my helmet's HUD flashes a warning signal. I turn to greet the short, hairless humanoid approaching. Hunched over and leaning heavily on a staff taller than itself, its elongated face shakes side to side before rearing up to look me in the visor. Its bald, yellow skin looks like dried and heavily beaten leather, only slightly darker than the ragged linen robe it wears.

I've never seen one of these before.

"I don't recognize your species." I state plainly.

It growls. "I don't care, _kwaag._ Payment upfront for use of this landing platform."

"You are the owner of this hole?" I ask, looking around.

To the left, a globe shaped security droid dips under the hull of my ship and buzzes around us. It beeps in the affirmative repeatedly as it bumps into my helmet.

Stupid, _kriffing,_ irritating…

With as much power as I can muster, without obviously showing it, I swat the droid away. It screams in a series of loud, high-pitched beeps, as it bounces over the sandstone floor.

I resist the urge to toss the small sentient around to _negotiate_ free rent and sift through my back pouch. Credit units aren't worth much these days, but then again they never were well-accepted out here, before. So instead, I pull out a handful of gold flecked truguts. Kneeling down to eye-level, I hand them to the sentient.

"This should cover three days stay, _and_ a refuel."

The creature looks at the credits in its clawed hand, and then looks at my visor. I can see the beginnings of an argument behind its eyes, but it gives my helmet—and the blaster in my thigh holster—a few suspicious once-overs. Eventually it seems to decide that the credits are enough and nods once.

"No explosions," it warns gravely as it limps away. The security droid I swatted earlier rolls across the ground before its repulsor activates and sends it spinning into the air around the tiny retreating sentient.

I step out from beneath the ship and take a careful look around. The walls are high, and are the same color as every other building on this desert rock—dirty yellow brown. Only one sun is up and barely peaks over one of the walls, casting an ugly red glow over everything in the area. In the distance, a group of repair droids haul a tube bigger than themselves towards my ship and begin hooking up for the refuel I requested.

I exit the hangar and nearly trip over a tiny robed Jawa. It squeals in surprise and runs back to the _other_ four of its kind crowding the opposite side of the doors. The street is dusty and as yellow as everything else. Across the way is a living settlement that appears more like a couple of sphere shaped boulders crammed together in half the space they should've occupied.

To my right, along the outer walls of the hangar, several vendors are in the process of setting up shop, stocking their stalls with wares varying from food to weapons to droid parts. I walk slowly, pausing by the first stall.

Several bolted together sheets of plastisteel stand against the wall. A canvas coverlet hangs over the top of the stall, draping down the sides and back, and held in place by lengths of twine.

This looks about as secure as a space pod with an open-top sunroof.

A table stretches to each false wall, displaying an impressive number of blasters listed in size and price. Most of them are old models, clearly weather-worn and dotted with sand. The prices are written on pieces of flimsy and bolted down. Behind the table floats a Toydarian, its bulbous stomach peeking out beneath a too-small vest as he continues to place down weapons for display.

"Are these in firing condition_?_" I ask.

The Toydarian sets down a small Merr-Sonn holdout blaster and rotates his body to stare at me. "_Kipuna koth'galu?_" he asks with clear irritation. "_Chuba tinka me dwana gulu'punyu? Kava me tari kanuta, tirin? Ne'tapa stoopa tapu, mando._"

I flick my hand in an unimpressed gesture and pick up one of the blasters closest to me. I examine the weapon while my visor automatically pulls up stats. It's an old, heavy blaster model. "Merr-Sonn. Model 23?" I verify out loud.

"_Hopo punyu, mando? Daa'punyu pul'ix tasa'mulia. Ji dwana nuto, nich'konia che kopa- 200._" The Toydarian offers as it resumes stocking the display table.

I turn the blaster in my hands a few times. I don't need another blaster, but I like how the weapon feels in my hands. The handle's strangely rounded and the metal is slightly melted on the right side of the barrel. The paint's flaking in most places, and dirt's clogged in every exposed crevice. And from the look of things… it would definitely need more than a _few_ modifications.

It's probably more work than it's worth. A new scope. Hair trigger. Precision chamber. Maybe a custom power pack.

Yeah. It's _definitely_ way more work than it's worth.

"_Da dwana._ Sold." I drop five gold peggat chips onto the table and hook the blaster to my belt as I exit the stall. My visor adjusts automatically to the change in light.

A couple of children, all of different species, zigzag around me, running in the street and laughing as they toss a sphere-shaped remote between themselves. Even from this distance, I can tell the small droid's repulsor is malfunctioning, as it can only stay aloft for no more than a few seconds before crash landing into a child's outstretched hands.

Their ragged clothes, dirty faces, and obvious lack of adequate footwear don't escape me.

Can't help everyone. Don't think about it.

I glance at the flashing timer in the bottom right corner of my HUD. 10:29. While it's never too early to venture into a cantina—especially in the Outer Rim—I think I'll take it slow. Wait a while. Browse the stalls until the streets get a little more crowded and the spaceport wakes up. Maybe I'll find more of these cheap, old _antiques_. Unlikely, but doesn't hurt to check.

I wonder if they still sell those tiny, sweet pastries around here…

* * *

_**End Notes**__  
_  
**Huttese Translations**  
_Kipuna koth'galu? -_ Firing condition?  
_Chuba tinka ji dwana gulu'punyu? -_ You think/say I sell bad gun(s)?  
_Kava ji tari kanuta, tirin? -_ How (do) I make money, then?  
_Ne'tapa stoopa'tapu, mando. -_ Don't ask stupid questions, mando.  
_Hopo punyu, mando? -_ Know your weapons, mando?  
_Daa'punyu pul'ix tasa'mulia. -_ That weapon need work/fix.  
_Ji dwana nuto, nich'konia che kopa- 200. -_ I sell (it) to you, one-time price, 200.

**Expletives And Slang**  
_Hurt Vector -_ a person who seems to attract misfortune to themselves and others around them  
_Kwaag -_ A Tulgah expletive  
Kriffing - expletive


End file.
